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Tumbleweed
Tumble, tumble, tumbleweed,
Contrived in all but dance,
For all I see of tumbleweed
Is a gifted mime of chance.
Lapse the rural Cooper's eye
In hazy bygone lanes,
Tumbleweed will bounce his way
Twixt lonely picture frames.
Behind the walls and crackled doors,
The infant of echo's seed,
Peers through aimless panes of clay
At outcast tumbleweed.
But beneath the dowdy jungle mesh,
The dust will raise alert,
For all that's just by tumbleweed
Is to enclave the inert.
Tumble, tumble, tumbleweed,
To see you pass in carriage,
To see you in your languorous joust,
Afraid to delve in marriage,
Afraid to brace the fecund straits
That bore the dusty chide,
But instead to laze in Bowery chains
Where tumbleweeds do hide.
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| a poem about outcast, dead end wanderers. or at least that was what I got out of it. I liked the feel of the whole thing very much. |
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To loet you know I was searching the internet oneday to find some facts about tumbleweeds for my short story
and i came up on this peom by u
Then I discovered Spoiledink
If you live in Colorado in almost all the fields you see tumbleweeds thankyou |
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| another well-crafted and really beautiful piece, Gary. i have to say that it doesn't come natural to me to love that kind of "strict" poetry (i'm a heathen and the first to admit it)--the rhyme, the meter--but it doesn't mean i can't appreciate the music, flow and rhythm of a poem like this; and i can imagine that it would be lovely to hear it read out loud. all in all, it shows your talent and remarkable flexibility to write something like this alongside your other poem "There Was Nothing I Could Do That Day" (please forgive me if i messed up the title a bit; my memory isn't the sharpest it's ever been). wonderful. |
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Comment by: - 2005-11-26 14:09
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This is 'Papa was a Rolling Stone' viewed through an 18th century telescope. It is beautifully crafted - its lines seemed to have been chiseled into shape.
The strict rhyme and meter, and the slightly archaic language evoked an ache of nostalgia, and took me back to the school where I last read poetry written 2 centuries or more ago. I sense a love of that cusp where eighteenth century rationalism collided with nineteenth century Romanticism.
I have only one doubt to voice: I alway associate tumbleweeds with the USA dustbowl states. As a result, It proved quite difficult to hear the voice of this poem, at least for me.
However, that said, this was a technical tour de force and a luscious poem to pour over in the late evening hours.'
xx Sian |
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